


John Watson, the Cold, and the Not So Cold After All.

by Sculpts



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV John Watson, Sherlock is literally the blanket, Sick John, blanket sherlock, he doesn't do a bad job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 00:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1760791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sculpts/pseuds/Sculpts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t happen often, John getting ill. You’re a doctor long enough and you know damn well how to steer clear of bugs. Still, there are always the sneaky little bastards who manage to find their way in anyway and sooner or later everyone falls foul, John Watson no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson, the Cold, and the Not So Cold After All.

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when someone posts cute headcanons and I'm in a writing mood abububu. Can also be found [here](http://willssholmes.tumblr.com/post/88119542221/john-watson-the-cold-and-the-not-so-cold-after-all), for tumblr users!

It doesn’t happen often, John getting ill. You’re a doctor long enough and you know damn well how to steer clear of bugs. Still, there are always the sneaky little bastards who manage to find their way in anyway and sooner or later everyone falls foul, John Watson no exception. Ask him on any good day whether he’s a man flu sufferer and he’ll laugh, shake his head and tell you he’s more of the shove a tissue up his sleeve and get on with it type. Ask him when he’s slap bang in the middle of a nasty cold and he’ll glare daggers like you’ve just insulted his mother and tell you to go and do something of which his mother would probably never approve. It’s on one of these occasions that John engages in his first all-day sofa vigil of his time in 221B. Honestly, he’s pretty wretched by anyone’s standards. Throat so hoarse he can barely be bothered to moan about it for all the glass it’ll feel like he’s gargling, face leaking out of every available orifice and upholstery only saved by the wasteland of tissues stretching out and under the table. So no. He’s not moving. Not for a case, not for Sherlock’s bloody “John, please, I need to think,” not for anything.

The first time he wakes, it’s not to a disgruntled manchild demanding his seat back but to an empty sitting room and a cup of tea. He eyes it through the gunk gumming his eyes together, almost tries to lift himself up for a closer inspection— mistake. His head spins, his shivers start up all over again, he swallows like a complete and total idiot and just like that his body reminds him that they’re actually in the middle of mutually hating one another thank you very much and if he thinks he’s going to be allowed nice things he’s got another think coming. Conceding the point, John flops back down onto the sofa with a defeated grunt and doesn’t pay much mind to the dark shape watching from the kitchen doorway as he drifts back off.

The next time, there’s a blanket. The flat is empty and quiet and the tea’s gone, but his ocean of tissues has been collected up into a waste basket that sits on the carpet within arm’s reach.

When he wakes again (a miracle, really, never thought he’d get back to sleep with how cold he’d been and how his nose just wouldn’t stop running), he’s not alone. The living room’s still empty, yeah. There’s no shadow in the kitchen, and no distant noise to suggest far off company. What there is, though, is the sound of breath near his ear. Warmth at his back, and - a concentrated patch of it at his front. Groggy, John glances down. Sherlock’s hands are steepled at his chest.

  


“Popped out to get lemsip. Don’t fidget - thinking.”

  


Huh. John lays there for a minute, staring at the steaming mug opposite his face that is presumably full of lemsip. Lemsip, right. He went out to get lemsip.

At his back, there’s a space between them - Sherlock’s close enough to share heat, just far enough away not to touch. John blinks slowly. Watches the steam rise. Feels Sherlock’s thumbs, rigid in his thinking pose, where they press at his chest. He takes stock of their little pocket of warmth.

Abruptly, John drags a snort in through his nose - tries, anyway, he’s too bloody bunged up to manage it in the end and has to open his mouth to avoid choking on nothing - and _fidgets_. Right back into the careful space Sherlock’s keeping, as it happens. His eyes drift closed to the feeling of the easing of tensed muscles flush against his back, to the extra weight of an arm relaxing down to rest over his side and to a gust of air releasing in a light huff at his ear.

  


Getting back to sleep, this time, isn’t difficult at all.


End file.
